


Equilibrium

by inasentimentalmood



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: 5x24 hurt me hurt you, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Season 5 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 23:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10977813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inasentimentalmood/pseuds/inasentimentalmood
Summary: "As soon as she sees the open cardboard box, the small items it contained and the crumpled brown paper wrapping, she realizes her mistake. Her father, too, had once tried to engineer methods to manage his condition early on—before he was diagnosed. Futile efforts fueled by denial and shame." A continuation of episode 5x24, "Hurt Me, Hurt You."





	Equilibrium

As soon as she sees the open cardboard box, the small items it contained and the crumpled brown paper wrapping, she realizes her mistake. Her father, too, had once tried to engineer methods to manage his condition early on—before he was diagnosed. Futile efforts fueled by denial and shame. She turns on her heel to hail a cab while reexamining the data in her head: Sherlock was sleeping more, acting secretively, forgetting. She thought he had been using, nursing old wounds with Shinwell. She knows now she was wrong. 

She turns on his phone GPS tracker, a security measure they had agreed to after his most recent abduction. She tells the cabbie where to go. Sherlock chose to keep the tracker on; she takes this as an invitation. His concessions often take such indirect forms. 

She thinks of her mother and her father. She’s not sure if she can cope with seeing someone else so close to her... she stops the thought. She won’t conclude anything until she has his CT scans in front of her—and even then, she will ask her friends who specialize in neurology for their second and third opinions. 

When she walks into the exam room, he is changing out of his scrubs. He gives her a weary glance while buttoning up his shirt. 

“How long have you known?” she asks, closing the door behind her. She told the man at the front desk that she was Sherlock’s partner arriving late for his appointment. This was technically true. 

Sherlock continues to silently dress. She steps into his direct line of sight. 

“I won’t ask you again. _Tell me—_ ” 

“Two months!” he barks, shaking out his left arm and buttoning his cuff. She blinks. “I’ve only now sought medical attention because the situation has exceeded my ability to manage independently.” He brings both hands to his eyes to rub them with the heels of his palms. 

“Symptoms,” she demands, with a shrill urgency in her voice. 

“Minor lapses in short-term memory. Occasional disorientation. My sleeping patterns,” he rattles off. She crosses her arms. She knows it’s worse than that. He’s minimizing his symptoms in order to protect her. 

“I saw your room!” The broken glass and disarray had alarmed her. 

“Hallucinations,” he finally mumbles. Her jaw drops, but she quickly closes it. In his discomfort he holds a hand out to take her coat and busies himself with hanging it as she sits down. He doesn’t want to answer the clinical follow-up questions he knows she has.  

“Despite my best efforts to behave rationally regarding all this—I have lost my equilibrium.” He fidgets. He starts again. “Moran. Jamie Moriarty. An adversary poses a clear external threat, something to grasp, someone to defeat. My addiction to heroin, even, I could still understand in a way, and thus overcome… but in this instance— My own mind betrays me. Watson, I sent a text and have no recollection of sending it. I solved a murder and then I… I… forgot.” 

He looks up and her face startles him. “You’re crying.” 

She reaches for a tissue by the sink. She sobs quietly. “I know how bad this can get.” She cries tears she has tried not to shed for her father, her mother, and that she must now shed for Sherlock, and for herself. “I’m scared.” 

Slowly, he takes his hand and places on her wrist. She recognizes the gesture. This was how she had comforted him four years ago, before they were partners. She places her hand over his and stifles a laugh. 

“That’s my move,” she jokes. He winks. 

She feels the energy that has been sucked out of the room slowly trickle back in. She sighs and wipes her eyes. Such candor is exhausting for the both of them. Perhaps for now they can feign normalcy for a little while longer. So he returns to what they’re familiar with, what they’re good at: the work.

“I trust you prevailed in finding sufficient grounds to convict Tyus Wilcox for murder.” 

She shrugs. Boasting doesn’t come naturally to her. “It was a group effort.” He rolls his eyes. 

“Fine. I had him dead to rights,” she admits with a gleam in her eye.

A knock sounds on the door.

“Come in,” they respond, in unison.


End file.
